Uncomfortable Compromises

 I woke up to hear the news that a "rail crisis" has been averted in our country, by Congressional intervention at the behest of the White House. On the one hand, I'm sad-- workers' rights to strike, their reasonable demands for a few paid sick days, and a desire for improved general working conditions were at the heart of their discontent. On the other hand, we have to consider the potential consequences of such a strike: it's not just very likely that it would blow a gaping hole in the national economy, it also would affect health and life safety for so many across this country. I, like so many other average citizens, never really give it a thought about how we have clean water to drink. Yes, we get outraged over crumbling infrastructure (geez, is the water okay in Flint yet?). But the chemicals required for water treatment are only able to be sent safely by rail. To strike is to threaten how people live-- not just their comfort, but their very lives. That makes it very uncomfortable for someone like me, a die-hard liberal. The greater good must prevail if we are going to make it as a nation, and this is where those difficult decisions and compromises come in. 

The same kind of compromise, on a very different level, is something we who love literature must wrestle with. For example, I love T. S. Eliot's work, and the Harry Potter stories, among so many other things that are the product of imperfect human beings. Eliot was an anti-semitic man, a typical example of the times and the social class he was from. Rowling is also a complication, as her stories talk of love and acceptance, yet the author is very publicly anti-Trans. How do we make the compromise --and I think we need to-- between loving the work and deploring the values of the artist? One can retreat to the "baby and bathwater" argument, but in this age when we must grapple with these real difficulties, it's not that easy. 

Add to that, the national push toward "anti-wokism" (what the actual hell, really)-- it's not so easy being a literature teacher these days. It's poor practice to only focus on the art without considering the artist, but that leads us all down this dark and messy rabbit hole. This week, I'm showing one of my classes the 1963 film Donovan's Reef; on the surface, it's a funny story, but upon a closer inspection, it's not really all that funny. Issues of racism, classism, colonialism, and sexism are rampant. Some of those issues are resolved in a pretty obvious and formulaic way (the doctor's children are revealed to be his, and Amelia is angered at the ruse the other men have concocted), but still, there are moments in the film when various types of privilege go unchallenged. This is the angle I'm taking with the students; exploring those social issues, how they are handled, and then, in the final analysis, trying to answer the question: why was this film made? We'll see what they notice, and I will walk that dangerous tightrope in my role as moderator of the discussion.  I had considered showing the full version of Holiday Inn, but it's just a little too fraught in some ways, given the overarching concerns that all educators are facing at the moment. It's too bad, really; that film, while one of my very favorite movies, has some meaty issues that should be explored and discussed. 

So that's the crux of it, don't you think? What we love has flaws, and we can't ignore them. My measure of a work --or a social policy-- is whether the novel, film, story, or policy seeks to do more good than harm. The incipient macro- and micro-aggressions and cringey parts cannot be ignored, but can they at least be discussed, while trying to secure a better (if not the best) situation for the most people? 

Have a great day. We have a fuchsia sunrise-- red skies and warnings, for sure.

--C